


Cecidit

by pessimisticprose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, F/M, M/M, Some Graphic Descriptions of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pessimisticprose/pseuds/pessimisticprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jerahmeel is possibly the most angst-filled archangel to ever be in Heaven. First he's banished, now he's dealing with Satan himself, all while pretending to be a Mortal named Grantaire. </p><p>Because nothing in his life is ever easy.</p><p>(Or: The one where Grantaire is a fallen angel, Éponine is a half-demon, and everything is too ironic to be real.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Some people say that white symbolizes purity. That white is untainted and can never be anything less than immaculate. White roses are a prime example of this theory. Romans believed white meant sacrifice and virtue. Priests wear white during Mass. Everything about the bright color was supposed to scream cleanliness and holiness.

  
To some people, however, white means nothing. White, as it is truly defined, is the absence of all color. It’s void; blank and unfeeling. White is too bright, too clinical, for some people. It is the color you see before you die when your life flashed before your eyes and you have no hope of coming back. It’s the color of death. White can cause pain, it can harm, and it can be a symbol for everything that is unholy, if you look at it in a different light.

  
That’s how Jerahmeel saw white as he stared at it. The white face of Hell, the archangel thought.

  
“You are no longer welcomed among us, Jerahmeel.”

  
Jerahmeel, who was kneeling before God on one knee, looked up. His eyes seared at the holy envisagement, but he made no move to turn his head. His last act of defiance. “Of course, Father.”

  
“Spread your wings,” God commanded.

  
Jerahmeel did as he was instructed. His wings were the only set that weren’t perfect. The other angels all possessed white or grey wings that had the most beautiful symmetry. Jerahmeel’s wings were slightly disproportioned. His right wing was slightly smaller than the wing that sat on his left shoulder blade.

Another unusual thing about his wings is that they’re not white, or even peppered. They’re black. Completely and utterly black. That small difference made some other angels skittish about Jerahmeel.

  
Uriel and Michael, his closest companions, grabbed either wing. The embarrassment of this made his banishment even more sour. He placed his knuckles on the ground, bowed his head, and waited for the pain.

  
It was not just pain. It was incomparable agony. The agony that one feels when they can’t bear to live anymore. It was the distress that sinners have when forced into Hell’s arms. It racked his body, filling him to the point of the screams which he dared not release. He swore that as Uriel tore to the right and Michael to the left, he could feel his soul leaking through the tears in his flesh.

  
It was the mindset of anguish that affected Jerahmeel the most. He knew that he was going to the Mortal World; the world full of filth, lies, and greed. All seven Deadly Sins were going to be around Jerahmeel constantly. He would never again feel his wings. Jerahmeel would never again see God’s face.

  
He collapsed onto his knees as they finally quivered enough beneath to give out. He sat before God, his head bent and sweat pouring off of his forehead. His back shook with the tumultuous breathing he produced.

  
When Jerahmeel looked up he saw Michael. Michael—his friend, his brother—was staring at him like he was Lucifer. That same stare as he had when the other angel had been banished. Shame, guilt, betrayal, grief, loss, hatred. Jerahmeel’s eyes pleaded with Michael to understand, but the angel turned away. He turned towards God.

  
“Be gone, Jerahmeel,” God’s voice rang clear. It did not waver. He would not care about the loss.

  
The ground parted below Jerahmeel. Before he could form a sentence, his body fell through the clouds that had kept him afloat for so long. His eyes began to shut as he fell farther and farther from his home, but the second he hit the oxygen, he was left gasping. His eyes bulged and he began to flail as he fell.

  
He heard one last Heavenly voice. Michael. “So be it.”

  
Jerahmeel screamed Michael’s name into the clouds above. He was so close. He reached an arm towards Heaven, but it was just beyond his reach. He was falling farther.

  
The Mortal World was below him. The world full of everything he had grown to dread. He fell quickly, and all Jerahmeel could think was I don’t want to go. Wanting. That’s what had gotten him exiled in the first place, and now he would never gain redemption.

  
He longed to apologize to Michael. This had happened to him during Lucifer’s Downfall, and now Jerahmeel would be written about. He would be loathed and despised and spat on by the Mortals. They would know about his banishment, and they would have him killed.

  
There was only one way to kill a fallen angel, especially an archangel. Every fallen angel has a small spot on the small of their back which is vulnerable. If one were to stab it, the fallen angel would die within hours. Agonizing hours. Tortured hours.

  
Much like the months of pain Jerahmeel was forced to suffer. Tearing off an angel’s wings is one of the most taboo things in Heaven. If you tear off one’s wings, so are yours torn. (Unless you are doing this atrocious act under the permission of God. Punishment, for example.) This is the law of Heaven. An eye for an eye. God was unwavering in his discipline.

  
Jerahmeel fell. He continued to fall until he felt Michael take pity on him. He hovered above the ground, and then splattered. Jerahmeel let out a cry of pain. His back jostled, and now he was left writhing in the rain. Jerahmeel arched, but that only intensified the burning sensation between his shoulder blades. He let out another cry before black circled flitted in his vision. He choked on a sob and passed out.

***

Some may find Jerahmeel’s punishment to be unfounded. There has been no mention of his crime until now. Jerahmeel did not commit a crime, per say. He practiced a Deadly Sin, and he also had a conversation with Satan.

  
The aforementioned Deadly Sin that Jerahmeel committed was practiced often. He had received stern lectures on the consequences of what would happen, and even a warning from God himself, but he hadn’t listened. He was still greedy and lustful, which Jerahmeel did try to keep himself from being. He does deserve credit there.

  
The conversation with Satan was less honorable, and definitely less forgivable. Satan, or Lucifer, as some angels still call him, had come to Jerahmeel in a vision. He had offered him everything that God could not give. The conversation went as follows:

  
“Jerahmeel, I can do so much for you. You will have everything: money, power, fame! Whatever your heart does so desire!”

  
“Why are you asking me? I am the least powerful archangel of all.”

  
“Precisely. You are the least powerful, so the most easily swayed,” Satan had cooed, “I am asking you to, instead of inspiring about God, instill faith of me into Mortals.”

  
“I will not.”

  
“Think on it, Jerahmeel.” Satan’s voice was like oil sliding throughout Jerahmeel’s eardrum.

  
As one can see, the conversation was not particularly invasive about the workings of Heaven, nor was it corrupt on Jerahmeel’s part. However, God has strict laws in place about having any form of contact with Satan. Therefore, Jerahmeel was exiled to live among Mortals.

***

Jerahmeel awoke in a confused state. He was no longer outside in the rain, this much he knew. He also knew he was lying on his stomach, and not his back. (He was severely grateful for whomever decided upon that.) He was also very groggy, something that he had never really experienced before. His entire body was throbbing, soreness washing over him like waves. He was sure that Uriel was laughing at him right now. Jerahmeel tried to sit, only to be scolded.

  
“Lay down, angel.” His head snapped over to the sharp feminine voice, but he immediately regretted his action. His neck sent tingles of pain all the way down to his toes. He obeyed her.

  
“How do you know me?” Jerahmeel demanded, shocked that his voice came out more hoarse than he’d like to admit. She looked at him, and he truly saw her for the first time. She had dark eyes, too dark, and her hair matched. She had an alluring appearance. Too alluring. The way this young woman moved was nothing short of seductive, and all she did was walk across the room. Her eyes flitted around the room in a defensive way. He could smell the demonic blood coursing through her veins. He allowed a strangled noise to escape his lips, “Cambion.”

She smirked, “That is correct. Drink this.” She placed a glass beside his bed. “It’s a Mortal drink called water. It will keep you from dehydrating.”

  
“I don’t need water,” Jerahmeel insisted.

  
She laughed. “If your voice is an account for anything, you do. You’re now somewhat Mortal, Jerahmeel.”

  
“What a comforting thought.” He fell back onto his stomach and winced at the stiffness of his body. “How long was I unconscious?”

  
“Here, it’s called sleeping.”

  
“I know,” he snapped. “Just tell me.”

  
She observed him sharply, “A few days.” She patted his shoulder, and he immediately recoiled. “Sorry. I forgot. Stripped wings. I heard it was painful. Like having your bones ripped from your body and then being thrown into something.”

  
“Thanks for that reminder.”

  
“I’m Éponine.”

  
“You already know me.”

  
She nodded, and they said nothing more. Jerahmeel fell back into unconsciousness.

***

When he was finally able to stand, Éponine took him outside. She helped to keep him steady as he attempted to walk. The cambion let the fallen angel lean on her in a way that Raphael would’ve found pathetic. He didn’t care. He wasn’t one of them anymore.

  
“I haven’t ever met a fallen angel. I saw the scars and then I knew,” Éponine confessed to him as he stumbled.

  
“I’ve never been out of the shelter of Heaven,” Jerahmeel admitted to her. “What is the Mortal World like? Is it full of hatred and murder?”

  
She shook her head slowly, “Kind of. More like pollution. We’re living in a strange world.”

  
“Have you ever been to Hell?” At this point, Jerahmeel was standing on his own, and now hobbling a bit. “I think I’m going to be alright.”

“Once,” Éponine said wistfully. “It was euphoric. Demons crawled the walls, literally. Some of them were blessed enough to be in a humanoid form, but most were jelly-like masses that just sat there. Some were like animals; usually reptilian in nature. My father, Ba’al, is an archdemon. Actually,” she frowned. “He is the second-in-command of Hell.”

  
Jerahmeel could tell Éponine didn’t want to talk about it. “We were sheltered,” he said softly. He took a shaky step towards Éponine and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Éponine.”

  
“You’re welcome. You need a name.”

  
Jerahmeel withdrew his hand. “What?”

  
“A human name.”

  
Jerahmeel nodded solemnly, “My last reminder of angel status.” He pursed his lips, “Where exactly are we?”

  
“France.”

  
He nodded. “Grantaire.”

***

Heaven is located above the clouds. Its glorious appearance is hidden by the balls of fluff that hang in the air, just beyond a child’s reach. The closer the clouds, the closer Heaven is. If one is an occupant of Heaven, one insists that the clouds shelter them from the horrific images of the Mortal World. They say that the Mortal World does not deserve the privilege of looking at the Heavens that reside above them.

  
Mortals know all about Heaven. They know of its existence. Some even possess the audacity preach that something beyond their comprehension. They think that Heaven is something to strive for in life. Many people who are there disagree, if they aren’t as high up on the hierarchy as archangels.

  
Jerahmeel, or Grantaire, didn’t know which side he belonged on. He knew the Mortal World was less corrupt than than Heaven viewed it. However, Grantaire also knew that the angels made the realm out to be far worse than it really was. Éponine wasn’t enough to base his judgement on an entire realm, but if a cambion could show compassion, the Mortals couldn’t be that bad.

  
It was a foggy day. Grantaire knew that someone, presumably someone in power, wanted to observe the Mortals. When the clouds were low, Heaven was within a Mortal’s reach. Grantaire looked out at the large city, still foggy and sporting a half-risen sun. The fog would soon be gone. Most angels would only listen when the sun was rising and most Mortals still found comfort in their dreams.

  
Grantaire looked out at the buildings’ tops and spoke, “Michael, I know you can hear me. The real question is if you want to listen.” He pursed his lips. “I have wronged you, Michael. It was selfish of me to force you to go through this again.

  
“I remember how you felt when Lucifer was cast away. He was like a brother to you. I can still recall what you said the day he was damned. ‘Now my light is damned with him.’ Michael, that broke my heart. I never wanted to see you so weak again. Look at me now, though. Now I’m the cause of your grief. I told myself I was going to protect you. I know, I know, you’re the right-hand man. You don’t need my protection. Michael, I wanted to protect you. I loathe myself, since I’m the cause of your miseries.

  
“What is it like up there? Is everything as it should be? Is Gabriel still being mysterious, although he clearly doesn’t make any sense at all? Is Uriel being violent again? Try to keep him under control for me, alright? I would bet my wings,” Grantaire’s voice broke on the word. “I mean, I would bet that Sealtiel is praying right now. Isn’t he?

  
“It’s ironic,” Grantaire hesitated. “I was the angel that inspired people. I awakened them to God. If anyone was to instill a love of Him into the people, it would’ve been me. I don’t even feel like I believe anymore. I want to—of course I want to—but I feel like he tore my faith out of me with my wings. Do you understand?

  
“No, I bet you don’t. You’re probably up there pacing. I bet you’re saying to yourself, ‘You’ve seen God. How can you not believe? Why are you questioning his existence?’ Truthfully, I wish I knew. Maybe I’m just bitter about my exile. Maybe I’m skeptical because if God is so holy, why would He damn someone like me? I was an archangel! I’ll tell you why. He did it because He was scared. He’s scared that Lucifer really is powerful enough to overthrow Him. He’s scared, and He’s power-hungry. Why else would He do away with His only competitor?

  
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be cynical about this. Aren’t we taught to look at the bright side of things? Constant optimism is so tiring, Michael. What is there to be happy about? We angels have to be perfect constantly, don’t we?

  
“I’m so sorry. This is going to be even worse than when Lucifer was condemned. We were banned from communicating with him, remember? Now you’ll never get rid of me.” Grantaire let out an unconvincing laugh.

  
The sun was almost completely in view now. The fog dissipated quickly after its appearance. Grantaire offered Michael another soft apology before he stood and walked back into the apartment.

***

The first time Grantaire decided to leave the house, he had with him only Éponine and the will to see everything the Mortal World had to offer. He was stuck here, so why not make the most of it? Surely this place isn’t as bad as the angels made it out to be.

  
He listened to Éponine patiently as she discussed the Mortals’ knowledge about Heaven. “They know it exists,” she had said. “They think that is is wonderful and this perfect place to be. People also know of the existence of Hell, and they’re under the misconception that it’s awful. Hell isn’t that bad.” She seemed like she was trying to convince herself. “Do you know about Transfers and Hunters?”

  
“What in God’s name are those?”

  
“A Transfer is someone who can travel between realms. There are ten of them alive, and their positions are sort of like a monarchy. If one dies, the oldest son takes over. They’re like messengers. There’s one who reports directly to Satan, and one to God. The others just deliver other messages.

  
“Hunters, on the other hand, are dangerous. They’re demon slayers. They’ll kill mercilessly, no matter what we do. Those people are under the impression that Hell is atrocious, and so are all of its creatures.”

  
“What about other Fallen Angels?”

  
She hesitated and put a hand on his shoulder as they walked, “I haven’t heard of any. You’re kind of rare, Grantaire.”

  
“I understand,” he sighed.

  
They walked into town square. It was a Saturday, so the square had a general aura of business. Grantaire had to sidestep many people as to avoid a collision and cause his scars to send him into a fit of pain.

  
“We can change things!” a masculine voice yelled over the swarm of noise, which was quieting after he had emitted that cry. “The time is now. Heaven is sending us a sign! Only one week ago, there was an angel spotted as it fell from the sky. Heaven is sending us angels! They want the Mortal World to be more holy, everyone!”

  
Grantaire was mesmerized as he stared at the man speaking. He addressed the people in the square, but he also paced occasionally. This speaker looked like he had gold shining out of his skin. His complexion was perfectly tanned, and Grantaire could see the muscular physique beneath the red jacket he wore. His bright blond curls went past his shoulders a few inches, giving off even more gold into the air.

  
This man’s character was what struck him the most. He was very passionate, this much could already be discerned. However, he was also speaking about the Mortal World like it was his own child. Therefore, Grantaire assumed that he could be very possessive and gentle if he had to.

  
Only one person came to mind. “Michael?”


	2. Chapter 2

Éponine pulled Grantaire back so the Mortals could crowd around the young man speaking. She raised an eyebrow at his slack-jawed expression. “That’s Enjolras. He’s the leader of a group of people who believe in pro-Mortal sentiments. They think Heaven is what Mortals strive for, so they want them to clean up their act. The group thinks that after they do that, Heaven will welcome the chance to speak to Mortals.”

  
“That’s unrealistic,” Grantaire cut Éponine a sharp look. “Up there they think that the Mortal World is full of filth. They would never come down here, and if they did, it would be after years and years of persuasion. They would have to be an example.”

  
“The Mortal World is more corrupt than you think,” Éponine told him softly.

  
“If the Mortals in this realm would work together, we could bring peace, prosperity, and a new future for everyone! Angels would smile upon us, and demons would fear to be here. We would have no need for Hunters, or even Transfers! Any one of you,” Enjolras’ eyes scanned the crowd and landed on Éponine, “Could speak with an angel directly.”

  
Grantaire shook his head and grabbed her forearm. “Let’s go, Éponine. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  
He spared a glance to the three men standing behind Enjolras. Truthfully, he hadn’t even noticed them in his Enjolras-induced haze. He guessed they were apart of the pro-Mortal group. He wondered if Enjolras really needed bodyguards, but left his judgement to himself.

  
One of them wore glasses, but his eyes were jumping around in a nervous manner. He was looking for trouble. Grantaire could tell just by his posture that he had fought people before—possibly many. He had his hands behind his back, and he stood stiffly, like he was anticipating something bad to happen. He stood the closest to Enjolras, so Grantaire pegged him as the second-in-command.

  
Two more men stood close together behind the bespectacled gentleman. One had a mop of black waves sitting on his head, whilst the other boasted a choppy brown haircut. They stood alert and poised, as if waiting for any attack on their leader. Grantaire let himself wonder for a brief second what kinds of weaponry they had on them, but quickly dismissed the thought.

  
He drug Éponine towards a different building. Anything to get away from Mortals who didn’t know anything about Heaven. She allowed herself to be pulled under the marble pillars. He looked at the sign, and it identified the large building as a library. He dropped her forearm motioned for her to follow him inside.

  
“Why did you bring me in here?” she asked him cautiously. “What did he do?”

  
“Nothing! He just doesn’t understand anything about Heaven.”

  
“So that made you forcibly drag me away? The guy behind him was kind of cute!” Éponine teased.

  
He rubbed his eyes. “Be serious.”

  
Éponine fell silent and Grantaire walked past the foyer of the grand building to where books were kept. The place was silent for the most part, excluding a room that was full of schoolboys chattering about nothing.

  
“Hi!” one voice called. A tiny blonde man waved the two into the room. “There are enough seats for everyone!”

  
Éponine shot Grantaire a cautious look, but strode forward anyway. This is the moment in their relationship that established Grantaire as the follower. Éponine now made the decisions, and they both knew it.

  
“Hello,” she said. “What are you doing in here?”

  
The blond man giggled. “We’re a political group. A few of our members are outside right now, so we’re waiting on them. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to some people!” He turned to lead them around the group.

  
Grantaire murmured in Éponine’s ear, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  
“Go with it.”

  
“Okay!” The blond clapped his hands together, “I’m Jehan!”

  
“Dude, you can’t just trust them with everything! What are you two even doing here?” Grantaire averted his eyes from Jehan to a man who was now standing beside the small man. His eyes were stunningly blue, which drew attention from everything else about him. He peered at Grantaire. “Do I know you?”

  
“Most likely not.” Grantaire nodded politely. “Grantaire.”

  
“Courfeyrac,” he said. He observed Grantaire’s awkward posture for a moment before crowing out an exclamation of delight. “Don’t worry! I don’t bite.”

  
“I would hope not,” Grantaire murmured.

  
“It’s an expression,” Éponine chided. “Sorry, he isn’t from around here.”

  
“It’s cool!” Courfeyrac shrugged it off. “Not a big deal at all. Where are ya from?”

  
It was that fortunate moment that two of the four men who had been outside chose to stride through the door. Grantaire breathed out a sigh of relief.

  
“Hello.” One nodded.

  
Jehan seemed oblivious to them. “Okay, so we’re Les Amis de l’ABC.”

  
“Sounds like a mouthful.”

  
“We’re a political group. We believe that the Mortal World has to straighten itself out before Heaven will communicate with us willingly. Wait, that isn’t what we think. We have to fix the Mortal World ourselves. We’re always looking for new members, you know!”

  
Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Then why aren’t hundreds of Mortals present?”

  
Jehan ignored his rude tone. “Not many people like our cause.”

  
“A stupid decision, really,” someone chimed in.

  
“Oh,” Éponine shot Grantaire a look. “I’m not sure we’re on the same page with that belief. I think we should clean the realm up, though.”

  
“I respect that.” Jehan help up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I’m sure Enjolras won’t mind.”

  
Grantaire stiffened. “That man outside is a member?”

  
“I am.”

  
Grantaire turned his head slowly and saw Enjolras up close. He jumped at their sudden proximity and took a step backwards so he didn’t feel claustrophobic. “Uh,” he said. He couldn’t think of a better response. This man could easily pass as the personification of sunlight, and it was very distracting.

  
“Two people left during the demonstration.” The gentleman with glasses peered at Éponine before speaking again. “Was it you and him?” She could only nod in return. “I do a headcount at smaller rallies.” He stuck out his hand. “Combeferre.” Éponine eyed his hand in worry, so he dropped it and looked at Grantaire. “Right. I’m guessing Jehan already welcomed you.”

“I did!” Jehan put a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “They seemed nice enough. It couldn’t hurt for them to come to a meeting or two at the Musain. I mean, you’re always looking for people to dedicate themselves to the cause, Enjolras. You can use your persuasive powers to win them over.”

  
Grantaire thought Jehan might have been laying the praise on a bit thick, but Enjolras merely snorted in amusement. “Fine. Our next meeting is Thursday at six.”

  
Éponine grabbed Grantaire’s wrist and began to pull him out of the library. “We’ll be there,” she stated.

***

“What happened?” Grantaire queried on the way back to their apartment.

  
“That man! Combeferre! He was a Hunter!” She shivered. “He has demon blood on his hands.”

  
“He looked fairly clean to me.” She shot him a glare. “You’re a cambion. Do you have to worry about Hunters?”

  
“Yes!” she shrieked. “Hunters don’t care. They kill without thought! With my father being Ba’al, I’m pretty damn powerful. He could sense it! He knew!” She rubbed her temples. “This sucks!”

  
Grantaire stopped her furious pace and put his hands on her shoulders. He looked her directly in her dark eyes, “Calm down, Éponine. I promise that that man will never hurt you. You don’t have to go to the Musain. I won’t either.”

  
Éponine nodded tearfully. “Thank you.” She wrapped him in a forceful hug and Grantaire let out a whimper of pain. She drew back with an apologetic smile playing on her lips.

***

Éponine nodded solemnly at Grantaire’s back. “It’s a pain salve. It should take away the stinging.”

  
“Just do it.” Grantaire knelt in front of Éponine and she scooped a glob of the minty cream onto her hand.  
“This will probably hurt.” With that, she slathered his right scar.

  
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grantaire swore as he gritted his teeth together.

  
“I’m sorry!” Éponine traced her finger along the mark running along his spine. “There’s no way these are that painful. They’re scars.”

  
Two thick scars ran their way down his back. They were pink and looked fairly new, but they were ragged. The jagged edges ran from Grantaire’s shoulder blade all the way to the small of his back. They were unattractive and awful against the smooth skin of Grantaire’s back.

  
Éponine stared at them in wonder, “Wow. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  
“Well, they fucking hurt, so rub that shit on it and let’s be done with this.”

  
“Okay! Sorry.”

  
She put another glob of cream onto her finger and slid it along his left mark. She offered him an apology when she heard the hisses escaping his mouth. She lightly ran her finger along the right scar adorning his otherwise smooth back.

  
“Mother-”

  
“Stop,” she said, “You’re done.”

  
“Thank every deity ever worshiped,” he croaked. “Never again. Can we never touch them again?”

  
“I’ll think about it.”

***

Thursday rolled around before Grantaire knew it. He looked out at the city with no intention of going to the Musain at all, but Éponine cleared her throat behind him.

  
“Are we going or not?” she asked.

  
“I thought you were afraid of Combeferre.”

  
“I haven’t done anything wrong. He seems like a fair judge, so as long as I don’t do anything demonic, I should be fine. Just because my father is Ba’al doesn’t mean-” She let the sentence hang in the air.

  
“Doesn’t mean that you’re evil. I know.”

  
She flashed him a grin. “He probably won’t even notice I’m there.”

  
“Exactly.”

  
Grantaire didn’t agree with her.

***

“You came back!” Jehan smiled.

“We did,” Grantaire nodded. “Who’s that?” Grantaire motioned to a woman who definitely wasn’t at the library on Monday.

  
“That’s Cosette. Girlfriend of Marius, one of our members. Let me introduce you to everyone.”

  
Everyone took a liking to the new people, save Enjolras and Combeferre. Bahorel and Feuilly offered to buy Grantaire a drink when he confessed he had never tasted alcohol. (He enjoyed it far too much.) They were impressed with how well Grantaire held his alcohol for a man who had never had any. Feuilly and Bahorel usually commandeered Grantaire’s attention throughout the night, but they paid little mind to Éponine.

  
Cosette took an instant liking to Grantaire, and she stayed at his side the entire night as he downed drink after drink. He could vaguely sense something different about her, but the brandy diluted his judgement about her. He could register that she was very pretty. Éponine glared at her whenever Cosette tried to speak to the cambion, so she eventually gave up.

  
Combeferre kept staring at Éponine like she was some kind of experiment. She would nod coldly at him and receive nothing but an indifferent stare in return. She knew he knew, but she wasn’t sure why he wasn’t springing on her with a poisoned knife or holy water, which would surely sear her skin.

  
Enjolras hated the new man. He did nothing but accept Feuilly and Bahorel’s drinks in stride, and it irrationally irritated Enjolras. He thought that the new member should at least try to listen to him preach about mortals and Heaven. Enjolras wasn’t used to being ignored, but he found it impossible to forgive. Luckily, Combeferre asked him a question as he was about to snap at the man. It distracted him enough.

***

Creatures, of both evil and heavenly persuasion, lurk in just about every shadow. Heaven and Hell’s existence are common knowledge in the Mortal World. With these realms in everyone’s knowledge, they are also aware of the existence of angels, demons, and everything in between.  
Fallen angels are extremely rare. The only angel to ever warrant this excessive punishment was Lucifer, but he is now considered Satan. Some Mortals don’t consider him a fallen angel at all, because he is now the ruler of Hell.

  
In any event, fallen angels will never live without pain. Their scars will never fade, and the slightest caress, even that which stems from a lover, causes agonizing burning and stinging sensations to befall the angel. One may think that this is rather odd, but these scars are said to be a constant reminder of God’s punishment.

  
Fallen angels can only be slain if they are pierced in the small of their back. They are immortal, and will never age. This could be a blessing and a curse, depending on who you choose to ask.

  
Cambions are the spawn of a demon and a Mortal. They aren’t rare, but powerful cambions can possess powers and cause severe damage to the Mortal World if they so desire. A cambion can survive for several centuries (this aspect of their being comes from the demon blood coursing through their veins), but some commit suicide over fear of a Hunter’s punishment, or even just from dying before their Mortal companions.

  
Archangels report directly to God himself. They will never die, but they can only leave Heaven on rare occasions. Archangels are literally the holiest beings who are still capable of being terrible. Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit are perpetually immaculate, but archangels can be corrupt and horrible. They can have a hidden hatred and want to viciously condemn everything in their path. This is not trying to suggest that any current archangels possess this quality, but it is a possibility.

  
Demons are, in all honesty, more complex than archangels. Many people wish to find Heaven more interesting that Hell, because it is generally accepted as a horrid place, but Hell is full of contradictions. Demons are intelligent, even more so than some archangels. They have internal turmoils; they wish to serve Satan, even if it is the wrong thing, but the turmoil lies in the moral issues with their deeds. Many demons used to be Mortal (unless they were created by Satan himself), so they do not wish to cause direct harm upon the Mortal World, but are forced to by their loyalty to their master.

  
These forces conflict. Archdemons are the counterpart of archangels, and they are as terrible as the archangels are holy. Ba’al is the most influential archdemon in all of Hell, mainly because he is trusted by Satan.

  
There is a war between Heaven and Hell.


	3. Chapter 3

It happened after Éponine and Grantaire had gone to exactly seven meetings. Seven weeks of being around the Amis. First, allow the author to mention their companionships formed in those seven weeks of being around Les Amis de l’ABC.

Grantaire formed almost immediate friendships with Cosette, Feuilly, and Bahorel. Bahorel and Feuilly found Grantaire to be very amusing company when drunk and very intelligent company when sober. They sought him out three times outside of official Amis business so far, and the three soon became very good friends.

Cosette enjoyed Grantaire immensely. She wanted to help him, because she very publicly claimed she could see that little spark of darkness forming and wanted to best it before it could catch fire. Grantaire had laughed at her when she said that, but the brunette only pursed her lips and set herself to her cause with a vehemence. She simply wanted to help him.

Éponine had a more difficult time making friends. She pined over a man with copper hair and freckles for the first four weeks, but quickly got over him when she realized how naïve he was. His name was Marius Pontmercy, and he was completely enamored with Cosette, his longtime girlfriend.

She had an easy friendship with Jehan, which took a few meetings to build. Other than Jehan, and on occasion Courfeyrac, Éponine tended to stay with Grantaire silently during the meetings. She was terrified of saying the wrong thing and then having Combeferre spring on her with a blade or cross.

Combeferre hadn’t said a word to the cambion. His eyes, when he wasn’t looking at Enjolras, were usually trained on her. His gaze wasn’t always cold, sometimes is was merely curious, but on a rough day, he would look at her with sheer hatred in his eyes.

It really bothered Éponine in the confines of her and Grantaire’s home. He saw her with fire in her eyes one night because of him, and then sometimes she would be on the brink of tears the next. He had never seen her cry, because she usually slams her bedroom door and refuses to come out for a day or two, but he could hear the violent sobs through the walls.

Enjolras was a different case altogether. He paid Éponine no mind really, but he couldn’t ignore the drunken arguments to his words that Grantaire would shout during a meeting. Grantaire thought he absolutely loathed him. He would snap at him every meeting, send him looks of pure hatred, and Bahorel even told Grantaire that Enjolras said it was better when he wasn’t at meetings.

Grantaire thought he was giving Enjolras a different perspective. He thought that Enjolras would appreciate the thought and offer him a smile. He had seen him smile once, and longed to have it directed at him. Grantaire wouldn’t admit it, but he was absolutely entranced by Enjolras. The way he had passion radiating out of him made Grantaire want to follow him anywhere.

In the short span of seven weeks, Grantaire and Éponine also established their respective places in the Musain as the drunk and the shadow. Grantaire hardly drank outside of the weekly meetings, but when he was there he was always intoxicated. Bahorel and Feuilly found his antics hysterical, so they were the ones to keep slipping him alcohol. (Combeferre and Courfeyrac had tried to tell them to stop, but they merely flashed their two friends innocent grins.)

They also quickly picked up on everyone else’s position in the Musain.

Enjolras was the obvious leader who was slightly oblivious. He was very feminine in appearance, but extremely dominant in personality. He would snap at people if they didn’t share his opinion on things, but he was kind to his friends in Les Amis, to the point of being too nice.

Combeferre was their beacon of light—a guide of sorts. He advised people on what path to take. He was very cool and calculating, and always saw each side of the argument before passing judgement. He was also a mystery. It was a well-known fact that he was a ruthless Hunter in Paris. He had obviously killed many, many demons in his short lifetime, but no one knew exactly how many. His status as Hunter truly contradicted his gentle nature during meetings.

Courfeyrac and Jehan had something going on. Grantaire could discern this much. They worked a bit like magnets. Jehan would shift, and Courfeyrac would then move to fit himself around the curve of Jehan’s body. Éponine couldn’t see it, but Grantaire thought their relationship was sickeningly sweet.

Jehan was a self-proclaimed poet. (Grantaire had yet to see his work.) He would often compose a poem at random. He wrote sonnets about the magnificence Enjolras’ blond hair almost every meeting. His romanticism was complimented by Courfeyrac’s flirtatious personality. They worked better together than alone.

Some members who Grantaire had yet to befriend, but had already briefly met, were Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta. He had had a short conversation with Musichetta about Joly and Bossuet’s hands (which he never wants to repeat for as long as he’ll be in this realm), but he had yet to have an interaction with either Joly or Bossuet.

Feuilly and Bahorel were a bit like the partners in crime. They worked a bit like Courfeyrac and Jehan, better together than apart, but they weren’t lovers. Grantaire could tell that Feuilly pined over Bahorel, but the burly man had yet to notice.

The aforementioned incident happened after seven meetings. In retrospect, Grantaire should’ve known that the one they were avoiding would know first. Éponine had gone back inside, and Grantaire wanted some fresh air before going into the Musain to their eighth assemblage with the members of Les Amis de l’ABC. He was very suddenly, and roughly, pulled around the corner of the alley and slammed into the brick wall. He convulsed in pain for a moment because his back was being pushed to the wall and it hurt so bad and oh.

Combeferre had him roughly pressed against the wall, and there was a blade on his throat. He could feel the poison on it, but he knew it wouldn’t kill him no matter where he slit his throat.

Grantaire smirked in an attempt to hide his pain, but tears were in his eyes. “Yes?”

“What is she?”

“She? Please be more specific, dear Combeferre!”

He pressed it closer, and Grantaire felt the poison burning him. “Éponine,” he hissed.

“Last I checked, I’m not Éponine, unless something very strange happened to us last night. So I suggest if you want her secrets, you ask her.” He let out a small whimper at the pain as Combeferre pressed against him harder. “Let me go right now,” he said through gritted teeth.

Combeferre studied his expression and asked, “Is the poison bothering you? Are you also a demon? Do you work for Hell?”

“Fucking let me go right now,” he pleaded.

Combeferre released him and Grantaire fell to his knees. He took shaky breaths before Combeferre finally spoke. “It wasn’t the knife.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Where did you live before Paris, Grantaire?”

He looked up at Combeferre and had to squint a bit. “Where did I live?” he repeated slowly. He didn’t know any places in the Mortal World except for Paris. He knew nothing of this realm.

“You show up one day in a city where I know everyone, creature or not, with no background at all. You come with a demon-”

“She isn’t a demon,” Grantaire interrupted.

“A cambion then. Child of a powerful demon, most likely. What are you?”

He looked up at Combeferre. “I don’t think that’s any of your business. Besides, I thought you were more interested in Éponine. Why the sudden change?”

Combeferre ignored his question. “But you are something.” The man bent down to help Grantaire up and when he clapped him on the back when Grantaire was standing, the man let out a yelp of pain. Combeferre recoiled and understanding came to his eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he snapped.

“You’re the fallen angel.”

He chuckled uncomfortably. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What country do you live in?”

“France,” he said automatically.

“Who’s the president?”

Grantaire opened his mouth to answer, but he honestly had no idea. He ended up opening and closing his mouth a few times before saying, “That means nothing.”

“Which one were you? Were you an archangel? I mean, are regular angels even up there? Do regular people become angels?” His voice was full of wonder.

Grantaire rubbed his temples in annoyance and replied, “How should I know? I’m clearly Mortal.”

“You claim to live in France, yet you have no idea who the president is.” Combeferre smirked in victory.

Grantaire threw up his hands in exasperation. “So what? Maybe I’m just that apathetic!”

“Doubtful. Wait until Les Amis finds out about you!” Combeferre’s eyes lit with excitement.

“No. No way. This stays between us, Hunter,” Grantaire insisted coldly. “I don’t even want you to know, let alone Enjolras. I’ll become a puppet for him to use in demonstrations. No thank you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one? I only carry them to look scary. Do they hurt?” Combeferre didn’t notice the innocent look in his eyes.

“What? I don’t know, I don’t smoke. Don’t change the subject! Enjolras is a smart person! He wouldn’t use you only for the cause like that, Grantaire.”

The ever-evolving cynic rolled his eyes. “Why wouldn’t he? If I can propel the people to see through his eyes, to his cause, then why would he be virtuous? A man who needs mountains moved is a man that will use anything to cut completely through them.”

Combeferre shrugged. “I have known him my entire life. He isn’t that sort of person.”

“One becomes a different man when they have a goal in mind.” Grantaire shook his head and said, “I’m going inside.” He did just that.

***

For two meetings after the revelation confrontation, as Grantaire had taken to calling it, Combeferre’s eyes weren’t trained on the fair cambion sitting beside Grantaire. They were trained on the former archangel himself. His expression was usually unreadable, but sometimes a cynical remark would pass through Grantaire’s red lips and the lines on his face would harden. (Combeferre had some kind of wild thought that Grantaire should be optimistic.) Grantaire, ever the one to accept a challenge, would stare at Combeferre coolly. He never let an emotion—save amusement and an occasional smirk—pass over his features.

If Enjolras noticed, he paid their staring no mind.

Éponine, however, confronted Grantaire. It was during their ninth meeting that Éponine finally questioned Grantaire on his and Combeferre’s odd behavior.

“Grantaire,” she hissed during one of Enjolras’ monologues. “What’s going on? Why are you and Combeferre undressing each other with your eyes?”

The man reeled back and yelped, “Éponine! No! It isn’t like that!” In a lower tone, Grantaire confessed, “He knows.”

Her eyes widened to an almost cartoonish size. “About you?”

“He confronted me about your status, which he knows by the way, and upset the twins.” He rolled his shoulders for emphasis. (At this point, Grantaire could achieve small movements and a brush to his back without wincing. Éponine wasn’t sure if he was healing or becoming used to the pain, but she didn’t vocalize her concerns.)

She gasped, “No! Why didn’t you say something?”

“Frankly, I find him a bit scary.”

He heard someone clear their throat. Grantaire and Éponine leaned away from one another and looked towards the noise. Enjolras stood, arms crossed and eyes blazing, and said, “Care to share?”

“No,” Éponine said, voice small.

Grantaire, however, let out a chuckle, “Why are you so interested in our conversation, Aether?”

The blond man stared at him a moment before timidly asking, “Aether?”

“The god of holy air and light. No, that doesn’t suit you, though! You seem like someone who would be a symbol of Nike, but she was a female and you are far from it in demeanor. Well, Hermes of the god of diplomacy and language. Judging by your eloquence, I could see you as a symbol of Hermes. Then again, he is the god of thievery, which I cannot see you embodying at all. So-”

“Stop,” Enjolras instructed.

“Apollo. I fancy Apollo. All in favor?” Grantaire made a swooping motion with his arms around the cafe and several people actually raised their hands, Courfeyrac included. Grantaire turned back to Enjolras with a smirk. “Apollo, as it is deemed!”

“You’re impossible,” he scowled. “Do you even come here to help make a difference? Or do you sit in the back and drink just to annoy me? Is that all you’re good for?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure what I’m good for yet.”

***

The first time Éponine actually spoke to Combeferre, she was genuinely concerned about Grantaire. The two of them had been skirting around one another for four meetings, and it was time for her to understand why. Whenever she tried to ask Grantaire, he would simply change the subject of their conversation. She had never spoken to the Hunter she was so afraid of, but Éponine was willing to talk to him with others around. He most likely wouldn’t become violent with Enjolras and Courfeyrac around. Right?

She sat beside him at a small corner table. She chose her moment carefully. He had already consumed one drink, so he was likely to be a bit more social that the normally tight-laced Combeferre she observed from across the room. Courfeyrac had left the table, presumably to order more drinks, and that’s when she sat.

“Éponine?” he asked.

“What’s going on with Grantaire?”

Combeferre was slow to respond. (She catalogued that for later. Alcohol slows him.) “Nothing. He’s the angel that fell to Earth four months ago.”

She made her expression one of shock. “Really?”

“You didn’t know,” he said. He didn’t ask her. She had the feeling that he was one to state observations instead of outright asking them. “I didn’t mean to tell you. He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Oh, Combeferre! I’ll speak with him at once!” She stood to dash away, but he grabbed her wrist. His grip wasn’t constrictive; it was gentler that she thought him capable of. He merely wanted to hold her back for a moment.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he requested.

Éponine nodded. “I promise.”

“You know, I don’t want to hunt you.” The slight pressure around her wrist was gone, but she felt glued in the place she stood.

Éponine nodded after a second. “I believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, long time no post! I've had this written for months. Oops!


	4. Chapter 4

The first time Grantaire met a demon, he ended up with two black eyes and a broken nose. He had been walking out of a relatively tame bar alone, which was honestly poor judgement on his not-entirely-sober self. The crisp air helped to calm the buzz in the back of his mind, but looking back, he would’ve preferred to be sober for this encounter.

A man who stood in all leather leant against the bar’s brick wall when Grantaire stalked past. He would’ve missed him completely if he didn’t hiss when Grantaire passed. The angel turned around only to see him stubbing out his cigarette and striding towards him with a purpose.

“This conversation should be kept private, Jerahmeel.”

Grantaire recoiled and shook his head. “Demon.” Grantaire wasn’t even sure how he knew. His entire person burned and throbbed with how wrong this man felt to him. He couldn’t process much other than the desire to get as far away from this man as possible.

“That is correct. I am Sonneillon, fourth prince of Thrones. You, my friend, are Jerahmeel, inspirer and awakener of exalted thoughts of God.”

“I was. What do you want?”

“I have a message.”

“Sounds promising.”

He smirked and said, “My Lord wishes you welcome to this realm. He hopes that you will come speak with him in your own time. He trusts that you shall come see him in a reasonable amount of time. He also asked me to say this.” The man breathed deeply and said in a familiar voice, “‘Greetings, Jerahmeel. I hope now that you see how cruel Heaven truly is, you will see that the Mortal World is no better. I trust in the Mortals to ruin your faith in their world. Whenever you wish to see me, please feel free. I’m sure you can find me. I am always with you.’”

“Wow. That’s not disconcerting or anything. I guess you work for Satan.”

“Indeed.” His voice had its cocky tone back.

“You must have a Mortal name.”

“Montparnasse.”

Grantaire laughed. “Still just as pretentious as Sonneillon. Tell your Lord that I probably will never contact him. Thank you for your time though, Montparnasse. Also, I go by Grantaire now.”

Montparnasse shook his head disdainfully. “He won’t be pleased.”

“Frankly, I don’t care.”

The fist collided with the bridge of his noise.

***

Éponine let out a little screech of horror when he came home. He batted her off, but she hovered when he straightened out his nose in the dusty bathroom mirror. He let out a groan of pain, but of course his groan was nasal. So that was painful, too.

“What the hell happened to you?” she demanded.

“A demon punched me.”

She huffed and began her questioning with a cool, “Who?”

Grantaire splashed some cold water on his face and shook his head, “No one.”

“Wow! That must’ve been a powerful figment of your imagination!” she crowed.

Grantaire scowled, “Éponine, I’ve had a really tiring day. Can I please not be interrogated?”

“Grantaire, this is serious! If you have demons coming after you, I have to be aware.”

He threw his hands up in frustration and said, “Alright, alright! Sonneillon. Montparnasse is his Mortal name. Prince of Thrones or whatever. He told me Satan wants me on his side, pretty much. Does it matter?”

She swore, “You think this doesn’t matter? Jerahmeel, this is serious! If you have princes of Hell coming for you, you’re a huge target. They obviously know you’re here, and they’re going to get to you before you can stop them. So you better get your fucking act together. Maybe we should see if Combeferre can do something.”

“Do something? Like what?” He snorted and prodded at the bruises forming under his eyes. “He just had to break my nose.”

“Maybe he could teach you to fight them off.”

Grantaire laughed at her, which admittedly hurt. He wasn’t going to admit that, though. “First of all, I know how to fight pretty well. Thanks, but no thanks. Second, since when do you even want to mention his name, let alone speak with him?”

Éponine emitted an affronted noise and pushed Grantaire down onto the cool ceramic of the toilet. He allowed her to dote on him for a while before she said, “Okay, there isn’t much I can do. The bruises are just going to have to fade. It’ll take a week or so. Have you ever had a bruise?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think.”

“Okay, they’re pretty much tender skin. Yours are pretty bad, so don’t touch them. They’ll hurt. I’m going to assume you’ve never broken a bone either. It’ll take longer to heal than the bruises. I can’t really do much for a broken nose. You already put it into place. I mean, I could put some gauze over it, but it really won’t do anything except broadcast that your nose is broken.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything is fine,” Grantaire babbled.

“We can skip the meeting tomorrow. You’ll just be questioned about your less than stellar appearance.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just say I was in a bar fight. I frequent them so often that they’ll believe it.”

“I’ll ask Combeferre about maybe trying to find you something to protect yourself with, alright?”

“Whatever you want.”

***

Grantaire regretted not skipping the meeting. He slipped in the back quietly with Éponine, but of course things went wrong for him. It seemed to him that God was still trying to punish him.

The moment he sat down, Jehan was at his side. He had a hand on his chin and he forced the man to look up at him. That’s Jehan; fiercely protective, but also gentle. He observed the bruises for a moment before he asked, “Who did this?”

“I like how you jump straight to the conclusion that someone hit me. I might’ve fallen down a flight of stairs.”

Jehan frowned and peered at the bridge of his nose, “Your nose is crooked.”

Grantaire batted his hands away. “Truly, I’m fine.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

Luckily, Jehan was the only one to notice for almost three-fifths of the meeting. Enjolras had been weaving a spell over everyone with his eloquence since Éponine and Grantaire entered the Musain, so their friends were enraptured with him. Jehan was the only one to notice his appearance until Enjolras finally ended the meeting.

“R! What happened to you?” Bahorel crowed. He hoisted a beer high into the air. Grantaire concluded he was drunk. “Did you get into a fight?”

“I did,” Grantaire nodded. He figured that minimal-word responses may elicit the best results in this case.

Éponine and Combeferre were speaking in hushed tones on the other end of the room. When Bahorel shouted his observations, she looked up briefly to make sure Grantaire was alright. When he offered her an almost imperceptible nod, she dutifully continued speaking to Combeferre. Grantaire noted how relaxed both of them looked, which was completely different than they had been when Éponine began coming to these meetings.

Bahorel ordered him a drink and said, “Well? Details!”

“He was at least six and a half feet tall,” Grantaire teased. He took a sip of the beer and added, “He wore leather, if that makes this man seem more intimidating.”

“It most definitely does! Did you win?”

“Judging by my appearance, do you think I did?”

“Touché.” Bahorel punched his arm rather roughly and left Grantaire in favor of sitting by Feuilly. Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief and turned to face the bar. He accepted the two shots given to him and downed one after the other.

“Is that all you do? Drink?”

Grantaire smirked, then turned to face Enjolras. “No. I also collapse occasionally. Of course, the hangovers are often.” Which was a bold-faced lie. Fallen angels do not suffer hangovers. “I usually overrule them with even more alcohol, however, so all is well!”

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, “Why are you here? To mock us?”

“No.”

“Because you’ve made it clear you couldn’t care less whether or not Heaven deems us worthy of its grace. You only care about that bar.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Grantaire shrugged. “I simply have to search for something to care about. I’m surprised you find me worthy of your cause, Apollo.”

Enjolras straightened and said, “Don’t come back if you’re going to do nothing but drink and waste away here. None of us want to see you practically mock what potential you have.”

“As you wish.”

***

Grantaire honored Enjolras’ request. The next week, Éponine came into the Musain alone. Enjolras watched the door after her for a few seconds before he turned his head away. He ignored the surge of disappointment and stood before everyone in the room.

His eyes touched everyone before he slowly spoke. “Three nights ago, we received several threats from anti-Heaven militant groups. Combeferre and I were able to dissuade them from attacking the Musain, but they’re sure to return. However, we have some rather disturbing evidence that someone has been giving them personal information of our members.”

Enjolras stepped down from his slightly raised platform and shifted through some papers before he found a manila envelope. He raised it so everyone could see and handed it to Combeferre.

He adjusted his glasses and said, “It’s a file all about Jehan.” He skimmed through it and said, “Which is scarily accurate.”

Courfeyrac was the first to stand. He was behind Combeferre’s shoulder in a second, reading everything through with him. He paled and said, “How did he find this out? ‘Once illegally bought cigarettes then apologized profusely to his parents.’ This has to be someone close to all of us!”

Jehan made a small noise, “I’ve only ever told that to you and Enjolras.” Courfeyrac and Enjolras shared a look, then turned their attention back to Jehan.

“We wouldn’t do this,” Enjolras said honestly. “Who knows who was around when you told us that?”

“Exactly,” Combeferre chimes in.

“Why do they have information on Jehan, Cosette, Grantaire, and Éponine, but no one else?” Enjolras asked as he flicked through the files. Cosette suddenly found her shoes very interesting and Enjolras raised an eyebrow at her behavior, but didn’t comment. Éponine simply sat there and stared back at Enjolras. Jehan found a portrait on the wall fascinating.

The door clattered open and a disheveled Grantaire was standing there. He blushed at everyone’s eyes directed on him, “What the hell is going on?”

Enjolras looked down at his file. “Why is your file blank?”

“My what?”

“Your file. Surely you’ve heard of a file before. It’s a common term,” he prompted, but Grantaire’s expression remained twisted in confusion. Éponine was at his side in an instant.

“Stop,” she commanded.

“Why is your file blank? You don’t even have a birthdate! How old are you?”

Grantaire’s expression changed from confusion to bitterness. “Why the sudden wonder, Apollo?”

Combeferre intervened. “Someone has been sending Les Amis threats of violence, and they sent us what they know about a select few of our members. Your file is included among the four and is, as Enjolras said, blank. There is literally nothing.”

He shrugged. “Nothing to tell?”

“Files don’t work like that,” Éponine informed him. “I’m taking him home. He’s drunk.”

Enjolras peered at Grantaire before deeming him sober enough to function. “We need answers.”

“No,” Grantaire said.

“What?”

“No. You want things I can’t give you, Apollo. I don’t have all of the answers, I just make it seem like I do. There are things I can’t give any of you, and one of those things would be answers. I apologize, but I can’t always please everyone.” With that, Grantaire and Éponine were gone. Cosette stammered out a goodbye and pulled Marius along with her. Jehan made a quick exit after them.

Enjolras looked at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “It seems threats from a militant group are not our only concern.”

***

Jehan and Cosette were alone when they came into Grantaire and Éponine’s apartment. They offered an apology for coming without a warning, but Grantaire, ever the social one of the pair, assured them it was fine. He ushered them to the living room, where the four sat uncomfortably until Cosette broke the silence.

“You know why it was us, right?” Cosette asked him. “Because we’re the creatures of Les Amis. At least, Jehan thinks that.”

“Not creatures, per say. I’m the nephew of a Transfer. I’m the next-in-line,” he made an irritated face. “I don’t see why they’d have information about me, but not Combeferre. He’s a prominent Hunter, and I’d be a second-string Transfer. Big deal.”

Éponine’s featured contorted into shock, “A Transfer? Really?”

“Yes. My uncle usually ends up sending messages for angels.” He sighed, “My first cousin is a female, so she couldn’t take the position. My father is dead. I’d be the next one. Luckily, my uncle is in excellent health. Transfers are immortal until they give up their position. He-”

Grantaire bit his lip and interrupted. “Could he take a message to an angel?”

“You mean, from a Mortal? I don’t see why he couldn’t.” Jehan looked at him, but Grantaire bit his lip and looked away. He allowed him some privacy and said, “I’ve told my story. Someone else should.”

Cosette winced, “Please, don’t think less of me for what I am. I care far too much for Marius to ever hurt him. I feel like my race is easily judged for the mistakes of our ancestors.”

Éponine smiled, “This is a judgement-free apartment, thank you.” They had never spoken to each other, and Cosette looked at her, startled.

“Femme fatal,” she said softly. “Technically, if one were to classify me, they would group me with characters of Hell. Which is completely incorrect. I am paired with the image of an enchantress, seductress, or even a witch. All of these allegations are false. I am a thing of literature almost. Like a figure coming off of the pages of a novel.” Cosette sighed and buried her face in her hands. “It’s really complicated.”

Jehan was enchanted, “Are you immortal?”

“No. I age the same as any woman.”

“How could one possibly distinguish you from an average woman?” Grantaire asked.

She smiled sadly, “Usually it’s by my appearance. I am usually seen as unbridled female sexuality, so I’m very beautiful to the opposite sex. I am literally the human form of sex.”

Jehan giggled. “How does Courf not know?” They laughed together.

“You must have a very protective father!” Grantaire added, chuckling to himself.

Cosette nodded, but said nothing on the subject of him except for, “Papa is a good man.”

Éponine wrung her hands, “Is it my turn?” The other three nodded, although Grantaire already knew her story, and she began. “I’m a cambion. My father is Ba’al, and I may or may not be forced to marry a prince of Hell.”

“Wow, okay. That was forward.” Cosette’s eyes were wide, but she said nothing negative. “Combeferre is okay with your presence?”

“We seem to be friends,” Éponine said hopefully. “We’ve reached an understanding that he won’t hurt me and I won’t cause trouble. He’s a very pleasant conversationalist.”

“Someone has a crush,” Jehan teased. Éponine merely blushed and fell silent.

“I suppose I have to say something now,” Grantaire said. “My name is really Jerahmeel,” he paused, but Cosette and Jehan showed no signs of recognition. “My file is empty because I have only been Mortal for about four and a half months.”

Jehan realized what he was saying first. “You’re the angel that fell!”

“Archangel,” he corrected. Cosette stared at him in wonder, but Jehan squealed.

“Enjolras would be thrilled if you told him! He would consider it a sign that you came to us! We could gain so much support-”

“I know, but I don’t want to tell him for that exact reason. Enjolras is an undeniably electric force. He doesn’t need someone to jump-start his followers’ attention. He can command a room with only his voice. He is perfect, so he has no use for me to help him.”

Cosette stared for a moment before she said, “You truly admire Enjolras.”

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see? i guess

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! Hi everybody! I'm your author who had a bad idea and ran with it.
> 
>  my tumblr is pessimisticprose
> 
> There's a lot of symbolism if you look for it. A LOT. Especially about my choice of archangel for R. 
> 
> Any questions? Feel free to comment. 
> 
> P.S. The title isn't gibberish. I'm not fluent in gibberish. (Only baby talk. My brother is four.) It means 'fallen' in Latin. I'm sick of titles being in French, so I chose Latin. French is derived from Latin. It works.


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